


Pumped

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ficlet, High Heels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 10:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Noctis misses a meeting over a fashion crisis.





	Pumped

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “I just want Noctis in a pair of pumps. Make it funny, make it sexy-- I don't care. Just give me sexy heels” prompt on [the FFXV kinkmeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4398.html?thread=7487022#cmt7487022).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s no surprise, of course, that Noctis is about to miss another meeting. On the way into the council chambers, King Regis gives Ignis _that look_ , and Ignis nods his head in quiet acceptance, stifling his own sense of failure. He _tries_ to deliver his prince as the picture of propriety, but Noctis has a mind of his own. 

The drive to Noctis’ apartment is a quick, familiar one. The elevator ride up consists of all the old arguments flittering through Ignis’ mind—which ones should he present, and will _any_ of them work. Likely not. He’ll still have to try. When the doors of Noctis’ apartment smoothly glide aside for him, Ignis can already hear the television going. It has that high-pitched, tense atmospheric music that denotes a newer horror film. Ignis half expects to find Noctis slouched on the living room couch, Prompto asleep at his side and a mess of junk food all around them.

He’s close. Noctis is indeed in the living room, lounging back in the plush cushions of his couch, but there’s only one half-empty chip bag resting on the coffee table, and Prompto isn’t around. With Ignis’ luck, he’s probably out fetching ramen or some other complete waste of calories to share with Ignis’ charge.

Well. Maybe Noctis isn’t really his _charge_. Noctis is a grown man and technically Ignis’ superior, but Ignis still drawls in disappointment, “You’re going to miss the council meeting.”

Noctis stares straight at the screen, not even bothering to glance at Ignis when he answers, “I’m not going.” 

He’s not dressed for it. In a casual black shirt and baggy black cargo shorts, feet hidden under the coffee table and likely in yesterday’s socks, he looks more suited to an arcade than the palace. But that’s nothing new.

Ignis dryly asks, “And why is that this time?”

“’Just not.” Noctis shrugs.

Ignis pushes his glasses up his nose, stifles his incredible fondness for this arguable monster, and begins to lecture, “Noct, you know perfectly well that each and every one of these meetings is of the utmost importance. You’re expected to keep up with the current standings of the council, to have an intricate understanding of Lucis’ policies, and when you one day—”

Noctis interrupts with an irritated, “Augh, fine,” and pulls his feet out to prop up on the coffee table. For a split second, Ignis prepares to barrel on, but then he realizes that Noctis has revealed his reason for staying.

Noctis isn’t wearing socks, but sleek, black, faux-leather stilettos that must be at least three inches tall. The silver heels arch slickly back to the base of the boot, catching the light off the television, like the metal studs that hold the laces in. Those laces are almost more like straps, crisscrossing from toe to ankle, then wrapping around the entire leg all the way up to Noctis’ knees, thoroughly binding him in. The shape of the shoes seems to fit Noctis’ perfectly, sucked tight against his pale skin, all the more accentuated for that contrast. Staring at them, taking in each and every meticulous detail, Ignis’ throat goes a little dry.

Finally he manages to say, casual but forced, “You look lovely.” He doesn’t entirely mean it as a joke. Noctis snorts and lolls his head back against the couch. Someone screams in the movie, but neither of them is paying attention to it now. The entire cast could die off in a frenzy of fevered cries, and Ignis would still have his eyes on the graceful curves of Noctis’ calves. 

“I lost a bet,” Noctis explains, and he crosses one leg over the other: an action that shouldn’t be nearly so eye catching as it is. “I was trying to get Prom into a tutu, but he won at King’s Knight, so...” So the rest is history. The only surprising thing about the story is that Prompto didn’t stick around to take an array of pictures. Or maybe he already has, and now he’s off developing them in a pristine lab to ensure the highest quality photographs imaginable.

Ignis would be inclined to ask for a copy, but his innate protectiveness towards Noctis prompts him to go the other way. “Perhaps you should negotiate another result. One without an element of danger.”

“Danger?” Noctis repeats. He looks genuinely confused. 

“Yes. Starting with such a high pair of heels could result in a twisted ankle.”

Noctis looks at him blankly for a minute, then scoffs, “I’m not that delicate.” Ignis should’ve known that would be the reaction. Noctis defiantly drops his heels to the floor and pushes off the couch. For once, he’s almost Ignis’ height, and there’s a strange, subtle thrill that comes from that as Noctis pushes past him in heading for the kitchen.

Ignis trails carefully behind, eyes on the sharpened line of Noctis’ legs—purely for safety reasons. It _does_ change Noctis’ gait, forcing him straighter, posture tighter, hips swaying with each exaggerated step. He saunters for the fridge and bends over to search inside it—Ignis deliberately looks away for that part.

But he’s on Noctis like a hawk the second Noctis is out again, now carting a can of beer. Noctis makes his way back to the couch, and just a few steps short of it, he stumbles—Ignis darts to his side, swiftly catching him and supporting all his weight so that his poor ankles don’t have to. 

For one split second, Noctis is frozen in his arms. Noctis’ eyes have gone a little wide, his cheeks flushed, his hands clutching at Ignis’ jacket, and his rugged warmth burning right through Ignis’ clothes.

Then he scrambles back up, pushing away, and mutters, “I’m fine.” But his cheeks are red, and Ignis’ point is made. Noctis quickly bends down to snatch up the beer can he’d dropped. He sets it on the coffee table and drops back into the safety of the couch, his feet again hiding beneath it.

Ignis wryly asks, “Shall I open that beer over the sink for you?” The last thing he needs is the sight of Noctis in heels _and_ wet from the foam of a shaken can.

Noctis mutters, “Yeah,” but doesn’t meet his eye.

So Ignis does. 

And then he stays on the couch next to Noctis, _just_ in case.


End file.
